


Tethered

by PhenixFleur



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill is an asshole, Contemplation of Murder, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Introspection, Isolation, Justified Contemplation of Murder, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Violence, Physical Abuse, RP-based, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, When is he not an asshole, human!bill cipher, mental fuckery, older/adult!Dipper, servitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8974183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: At night when the room is silent and still Dipper stares at the knife on the bedside table the way he has for weeks now, contemplating using it to sever the lead tethering him to the monster sleeping at his side.
It's getting harder to fathom actually going through with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot based on a lengthy RP I've had going with Bloom for awhile (that we may or may not be considering converting into an fic itself). The only really relevant information for this is that not only Dip under the effects of a deal in which he's required do whatever he's directed to in exchange for the safety of everyone in the town, but his heart is linked to Bill's magic. Aside from that, should be self-explanatory.
> 
> Also it should go without saying that is fucking dark. You see those tags? Bloom's Bill isn't the sociopathic yet mildly fluffy motherfucker in most of my fics (except for the Hunter AU ones - that guy's crazy and someone needs to call the ASPCA on him for real). Bloom's Bill is a real asshole, man. Pass it on! ::spraypaints 'Bill Cipher is an asshat' on the wall and runs for the hills::

At night he was always sure of where the knife was, instead of that nebulous and uncertain location it tended to exist within during the day - as if relegated to some pocket beyond the material plane until summoned by its owner for the express purpose of pressing it against his throat as a threat (or slipping it beneath the surface of his skin as a reminder, which was the case all too often).

The blade gleamed in the faint glow from a street light streaming through the blinds, innocuous where it lay on the opposite bedside table, only a few feet out of reach, but doing so would involve disengaging from the body quite possessively entangled with his and rising from the bed - Dipper hadn't quite worked up the nerve to do either yet, much less actually use the knife for its intended purpose.

And even if he did - if he did manage to drive the blade into the _seemingly_ vulnerable body at his side, into the heart because wouldn't _that_ be fitting, right _into his fucking heart the way he carved you open and yanked your heart out and held it in his hands while you squirmed beneath him begging him to stop remember that remember how that felt_ **_remember_ ** \- even if his assassination attempt went according to plan, what would that mean for him? Would whatever spell inscribed on the surface of his own heart dissolve, snapping the proverbial chain wrapped around his neck alongside it?

Dipper knew the answer to that question already; the smattering of tiny golden triangles scattered along his calves like glittering confetti embedded within his skin  was more than enough proof that without Bill's magic keeping the blood flowing through his veins he was, for lack of a more fitting word, screwed.

It didn't mean he couldn't dream, though, and on the nights when he was too conflicted and miserable to sleep he allowed himself that luxury - cycling through that fateful day out in the woods, replaying _that_ memory with the roles reversed...and doing his best to ignore the fact that as the days passed (pleasant, passable, and those that were considerably less so) watching the light fade from those eyes - with their faint, flickering hint of gold - became less satisfying; the reason for this was untenable, and yet...

...and yet Dipper could feel himself slipping, gradually becoming something that his previous self would have found abhorrent.

Perhaps it was the magic - not the kind etched upon and interlacing his heart, but the words he'd learned over the past couple of weeks, granting him the ability to alter and interact with the world around him in ways he'd only dreamed of. As much as he resented the what was essentially servitude he couldn't deny how much he loved learning each new spell and incantation, watching his fingers glow with their unique cerulean aura intermingled with gold, witnessing objects rise slowly into the air or hearing the click of locks sans the use of a key, through his own ability, not that of an amulet the way Gideon had that first summer.

He shifted ever so slightly (careful not to rouse Bill, who for all his inhumanity woke up exactly like any other grumpy asshole in need of caffeine), extending his hand and mouthing the words of the basic levitation spell he'd learned a few days prior while diverting his gaze to one of his discarded shirts lying on the floor; the article of clothing responded to his command with far more obedience than he could ever muster, draping itself over a chair before going inert once more. Dipper couldn't prevent the smile that graced his lips as the faint glow faded from his fingertips - this magic was his own, and he was more than begrudgingly grateful to Bill for gifting it to him - despite the punishment inherent within it.

If not the magic, maybe it was something else...something he loathed the very concept of admitting to, shoved into the dark, dusty corners of his psyche with the other thoughts he refused to acknowledge, but evident in the way his body responded to being touched by the former demon - the initial flinch, followed by a shiver, his heart rate rising, among other things that he _shouldn't_ have been feeling, should have been able to resist because it wasn't as if it were consistently _pleasurable_ \- all too often the clamp of a hand on his wrist or squeezing of his shoulder was followed by _pain_ \- either 'deserved' (by Bill's estimation, which was clearly biased and not at all in his favor) or arbitrary, whether being dragged into a corner and fucked raw against a wall while struggling to muffle himself for fear of discovery or teeth scoring his neck while the tip of a tongue flickered over the wound, savoring the taste of his blood welling up within the grooves left by canines too tapered for a human mouth or sharp fingernails slicing into his skin upon making a statement that strayed a little too close to the truth.

And yet...and yet...it all came with an internal trill of excitement, blended into the natural aversion to discomfort and surge of fear at having control wrenched out of his grip once again. And on the occasions where there was no pain, no torment, just the mutual expression of lust (because it damn sure wasn't _affection_ ), soft touches and warm wet mouths against heated flesh rapidly becoming needier, the former demon's suspiciously lengthy tongue wrapping around his cock while sounds that were barely recognizable as words spilled from his parted lips, fingers plucking at his chest and slipping into him actually aided by lubricant, nudging against that sweet spot and taking their time to work him up to the point of _begging_ for release, clinging to the body flush against his while nearly _crying_ from the sensation of magic flowing into him from every point of contact, rendering him so very lightheaded that he could barely recall his own name...and then being drawn close in the mindless afterglow...he reveled in those moments, clinging to what technically counted as affection and human contact as if it were a necessity - and perhaps it was, given that he rarely saw anyone aside from Bill, now, and even then those moments were brief as they were still in hiding from the monster that was somehow worse than the one he was tethered to.

Perhaps _that_ was the case, in the end - basic psychology; attachment was unavoidable in such a situation where one was not only reliant on another for resources but for the means to continue functioning altogether. Whatever life he'd retained prior to the foolish decision to approach that gryphon nest for that stupid feather was closed off to him forever - he physically couldn't return to his home nor his family, not with the barrier active, nor could he stray too far from his so-called master's side like a resentful dog on a lead. _This_ was his life now, tied to Bill whatever that entailed...and he hated it. He hated the pain and dependency; he hated how much he missed his twin's ridiculous jokes and her tacky sweaters and the rest of his extended family, longtime friends inclusive; he hated how different this room was from the one he'd come to know every inch of in the Shack, with its creaky floorboards and worn wooden surfaces and the way the setting sun streaming through the window cast a triangle (of all things) onto the opposite wall as it sank beneath the horizon...he hated the preclusion of any of his dreams, any plans he'd had beyond that summer.

And most of all, he absolutely hated Bill, with every fibre of his being.

Dipper's gaze flickered back over to the knife, lying innocently on the bedside table. So close at hand, potentially responsive to his levitation spell, now that he thought of it, a few words mouthed into the darkened bedroom. Revenge and release in one motion, his own heart faltering in time with Bill's, vindication trumping sorrow at his own demise.

He stared at the knife for quite some time, as he had the night before, and the night prior to that, and as he would many nights to come.

And then he settled back against the mattress, into his master's embrace, - possessive, as always, tightening whenever he shifted too much - allowing his heavy eyelids to slip shut as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
